


Lost in Oblivion

by SimonBlackchill



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Vampire Slayer, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Banter, Blood, Blood Drinking, Body Horror, Childhood Trauma, Comic Relief Moments, Dancing, Fights, Flashbacks, Fluff but like literal fluff, Foreshadowing, Gore, Gothic, Gun Violence, Horror, Humorous Dialogue, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiple Religion & Lore Sources, Original Mythology, Swordfighting, Vampire Slayer(s), Vampires, Violence, Waltzing, Werewolves, and i guess there's no jedi or anything so it's Star Wars but not, it's kind of canon universe but like with vampires and werewolves, spiritassassin, the Empire doesn't exist either, the edge is strong with this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 20:03:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14528136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimonBlackchill/pseuds/SimonBlackchill
Summary: "I don't want to be the sole survivor."It's been twenty-six years since the massacre of those who resided at the temple of the Whills in the Holy City. Ever since, the temple has been deserted. Ravenous creatures known as bloodmouths will stop anybody from acquiring their weakness - the kyber crystals. Their other weakness, the bite of a direwolf, has practically been eliminated around the same time as the temple massacre happened. The creatures are free to feed themselves on Jedhans as they see fit.They do not feast without fear, though. Chirrut Îmwe is a well-known hunter of bloodmouths, guarding one side of the city. On the other side prowls Baze Malbus, another man of the same highly regarded profession. When they finally met, for the horror of the beasts, they teamed up and combined their strength to protect the city they both call their home.In the course of their growing partnership, Baze notices something familiar about Chirrut. In turn, Chirrut smells something odd about Baze.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, Chirrut Îmwe uses [butterfly swords](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butterfly_sword). [Here's an image](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butterfly_sword#/media/File:Wing_Chun_Hybrid_Blade_Style_Butterfly_Swords.JPG) of those, wing chun style!

_A deathly white_  
_Are we alive?_  
_Oh, we are lost in oblivion_  
_We've fallen far_  
_Tossed to the stars_  
_So we are lost in oblivion_  
  
_The weak all know the pain is slow_  
_The strong survive but wish that they'd died_

 

**26 Years Ago**

The child ran so fast his feet would soon snap and fall off, he was sure of it. His legs ached and he slipped on a pool of blood on the stairs. He fell and tumbled dozens of them down, and he wept when he stopped.

Scent of blood twirled around him. The warmth on his robes became cold. The fabric was damp and cool against his skin.

The child had forgotten about the splatters on his face.

He still had a way to go, but he knew not how much. The tumbling and panic had scrambled his usual calculations, on a regular day he knew how many stairs he had to walk from the temple to the centre of the Holy City.

That night he had no idea where he was.

He did not hear the town.

He heard only the hum of a large fire somewhere behind him. He had left it far behind, but it tickled his feet. He had left it far behind, but it charred the hems of his red Guardian sash.

 

* * *

 

**Current day**

Baze licked his lips and threw away the bone he had been gnawing on. Perhaps eating before a prowl was not the wisest idea he had ever had, but hunting while hungry could have had disastrous consequences. He may have loathed the bloodmouths, but he hated the idea of squeezing the trigger in anger. Every bullet would fly with consideration, aimed to the head with the concentration of an experienced hunter.

A little critter dug its way from the sand and reached out for the bone. Baze looked in its direction, just to see what it was. But as always, his gaze alone was terrifying enough to make the critter run away with a little submissive whimper. Baze shook his head and set the barrel of the kyber rifle better on top of the rock.

In the night of the Jedhan desert, the lights of the City were barely enough to make any light pollution. The local star and the planet were beyond the horizon, the only lights were those of little fireflies and the stars above. Shrubbery grew in rare patches, and a mild wind blew through the wilderness, whistling in Baze's ears. It caressed his bearded face and moved the hem of his tunic even where he grouched. He enjoyed its tender, cool caress.

The thirty-seven-year-old had already greyed enough to be mistaken for an older man than he was. The scar on his face made him a formidable sight. He understood entirely why people and animals alike wanted to stay away from him. But only one species did _he_ want to come near, and that was the bloodmouths. He took a deep breath and waited behind the rock, observing the path below with vigilance.

The path was known to be used by the creatures on the regular, and it took them to the City, either to the streets or to the temple. Like Baze had hunted for his food before, they only needed food too and did not kill for fun. But it did not mean Baze would allow it. This side of the city he had designated for himself, and he had remained there for years.

Sounds of footsteps echoed from the ground. He tilted his head and listened to what the world around him told him. His sight was good for aiming, but his hearing was good for keeping the perimeter clear. And so, he saw from behind a large rock a group of three arrive. Wind brought the scent of blood with them. Something crimson had painted their hands.

Baze squinted his eyes and lowered himself more behind the rock, placed his finger on the trigger, and set himself to gaze upon the situation through the kyber rifle's telescope. The electronic aim inside the sniper scope gave him an estimate of the targets' body temperature, and the three figures were cold ones. Amidst the neutral surroundings, their figures had a blue, unchanging silhouette over them. A human being's or a direwolf's silhouette would have been either orange or red, in varying brightness.

"Got you," Baze huffed into his scarf. He hid the lower part of his face into the warm fabric, thus making the sounds of his breathing much quieter. His slow exhales warmed up his face in the Jedhan cold, the cold that gave a hard time to his fingertips that his fingerless gloves exposed. But he needed a tight grip of his weapon, otherwise he might have stumbled. And he had a reputation to live up to, and lives to protect.

The three seemed armed: each of them carried a blade. They were sturdy figures, each of them had long hair but none of them wore much clothing. That, too, was a telltale sign. No one walked through the Jedhan desert, in the night, with no overcoat or a parka or even a scarf. Even their long hair on top of their ash grey skin would not have been enough to provide them with the warmth the cold desert moon would rob any human out of. The only creatures that needed no clothing there were direwolves in their wolf form, and bloodmouths at any given time.

Baze could not have blamed them, even if it gave them away with one glance of an onlooker. Hunters like Baze protected the city, and Baze, like other hunters, had reputations that exceeded them. If one were to trust those reputations, one would have known to equip one's self with clothing and weapons that were suited for an effortless escape. Baze Malbus, however, was not one who could be outrun.

He secured his aim on the bloodmouth that seemed to lead, and who talked constantly with the other two, though with a low voice. The closer they came, the louder was the crackle of gravel underneath their boots. Through the telescope Baze saw their sharp teeth when they opened their mouths, and a wave of physical disgust washed over him. A whim to spit over his shoulder came to his mind, but that might have given him away, and then the fight would become uglier than he wanted it to. He liked it clean and quiet. Then he could go over and strip them off of everything of value they had.

The telescope showed a red speck that became larger and larger the longer Baze looked at it. It could only mean one thing: it had to be a human, in worst case a direwolf. Direwolves, however, were nearly extinct, so Baze did not expect that, though it did awaken a hopeful spark in his heart. His brow furrowed and he tried to aim again, but the approaching of another figure was noticed by the bloodmouths as well as their hunter.

The leader shushed the others and Baze looked at them from next to the telescope. They were close enough so Baze could see their movements, but he knew he had to stay silent to stay unnoticed himself. Where the red speck had been, there was now a dark figure who looked like an approaching, small hurricane. Wind brought a familiar scent. To Baze's great misfortune, the wind turned and now blew from behind him. He hoped the figure would attract the bloodmouths' attention from his scent.

A silvery glint reflected from the tip of a blade and one of the bloodmouths ran to greet the new figure. Baze was given the time to realize that he knew of only one hunter who used something as impractical for hunting as blades, to slay beings that used close contact for their advantage. One long blade found its way straight through the bloodmouth's chest, causing the silhouette to fall on the ground with a cloud of dust.

An otherworldly, sorrowful screech came from one of the two remaining beasts as the hunter pulled his blade through the wriggling bloodmouth's chest, and a splatter of dark blood stained the ground as well as the weapon. Baze knew this man, and the moment the man took a smaller butterfly sword from the harness on his back Baze knew him - it was Chirrut, Chirrut Îmwe. The only one who used kyber-infused swords.

Baze had no time to be impressed, however, for he watched his prey being taken by somebody else. Îmwe took a blade from his back, and with impeccable aim threw it in between the eyes of the other remaining bloodmouth, without having yet finished off the one that still clawed at the gaping wound in their chest. The Jedhan blood they had consumed earlier during the month now spilled on the ground. Baze's hold of his weapon tightened and he looked through the telescope again. The hunter called Chirrut Îmwe had a longer fight ahead of him with the last bloodmouth who themself had a blade with them.

Chirrut took a second blade from behind his back, fighting now with one butterfly sword and the long blade he had used before. As he moved and the three blades clashed, a red sash around his waist flowed around him as well as the hem of the long woollen cardigan so necessary in the cold. The movement of the fabrics painted the collision of two species into an intricate dance.

The rest of his clothes were tight, and Baze wondered why a close combat specialist would wear anything drapey around himself, anything that a bloodmouth could easily take a hold of. He had dark hair and a dark smudge around his eyes, and all in all he looked like a tough opponent. His movements were nimble despite the heavy leather boots, and his hits were as strong as his muscular arms suggested.

The creature who had been struck in the chest had stopped moving, and their body started to turn into ashes as expected. Baze clicked his tongue in annoyance, but moved his aim to the bloodmouth that still had a short silver sword stuck deep between their eyes. Despite that, the beast stood up and exposed their line of sixty sharp teeth and a face that in anger turned into a beastly visage. Without the hunter's attention they took their chance and ran towards Îmwe. Baze took  _his_ chance, aimed straight to the chest, and launched three shining kyber bullets into the bloodmouth's ribcage. One of them hit the heart, and the creature collapsed into a pool of their own blood.

Îmwe and the last remaining bloodmouth took notice of Baze, and the bloodmouth in illogical anger growled in Baze's direction. They leaped over Îmwe and ran towards Baze, but then Îmwe threw his second small sword right between their shoulder blades, causing them to stumble. Baze took aim again. Before he could squeeze the trigger, Chirrut Îmwe skewered the bloodmouth's heart with the long blade.

And that was that.

"So messy," Îmwe laughed and bowed to pull both of his stained weapons out. He shook his head as if to a naughty child. Baze sighed deep and stood up. Chirrut Îmwe put his hand on the back of the bloodmouth's head, then moved his palm down and searched for the hilt of the butterfly blade. He let out a loud _a-ha_ when he found it. He wiped the blood to a fabric he pulled from the front pocket of his trousers. Then he turned on his heels back to the battlefield, to search for the last kyber blade.

"Hey!" Baze yelped and un-mounted his rifle. He put its strap around his shoulders and bore the weight as he leapt down the hill where he had been watching. This was his area, and he did  _not_ like people breaching his territory. Chirrut Îmwe did not turn to the sound of the voice, but tapped the long, now clean blade against the ground. Dust still had not settled, and Îmwe had to cough some of it out of his mouth.

The blade went inside of the hilt, making it now look like nothing but a wooden staff with a metallic handle. A glowing tip appeared to the top of it. Only a kyber crystal could have that glow, and Baze would recognize it anywhere. Îmwe placed the end of the staff on the ground and moved it around as if feeling the road before him. Baze frowned and took long, swift steps towards the man.

"Chirrut! Did you hear me?"

"I did," Îmwe said and the tip of his staff met with one of the bodies he'd left behind. "I also heard your bullets right next to my ear, you know."

"You're welcome," Baze huffed.

Chirrut poked the carcass a few times, perhaps to determine how much dust had already been formed. He grouched next to it and tapped the space around himself, then found the blade. He did not detach it from the skull yet, but moved his hands down the body and found the bullet holes. His fingertips exposed by fingerless gloves like Baze's were stained in blood of a human who the bloodmouth had killed some time during the previous month or so.

The hem of his red sash fell on the dusty road as he felt around the creature's chest. His fingertip then found a bullet hole, and with a grimace on his face he dug straight in, took a hold of what he thought to be a bullet, and started digging it out. It took a few nudges that made Baze feel queasy and he had to look away, but of course, the sounds of the twitching body still followed and reached his hearing.

Îmwe yanked the bullet out of the body and, while he stood up, Baze could have a look again. The sash interested him, more than anything about Îmwe's clothing. And, instinctively, he did not want to look at the kyber bullet at all.

"A waste of kyber," Îmwe said and moved the bullet around in his palm. "You really had to shoot three times?"

His fingertips fiddled with the glowing bullet to get a proper feel around it, and a peculiar look rose on his face. His eyes were not black like the eyes of most Jedhans, but sky blue. His pupils could not have been seen - it was as if a blue shroud had been cast over them. Even in the dark night Baze could see that Îmwe had not directed a gaze anywhere near the bullets he was handling. They had not been together in about a week, so long had this particular prowl lasted.

Baze laid most of his weight on one leg only and lifted his chin to speak without the obtrusion of his scarf. "No one hunts in this area but me."

"My name's not No One, my name's Chirrut," Chirrut Îmwe said and curled his fingers around the kyber bullet, encasing it in his fist. Baze rolled his eyes.

"You could have left this one to me," Baze said.

"How could I miss the chance of meeting you again?" Îmwe asked. He turned to face Baze and tilted his head. His short black hair had been tousled in the heat of the fight, and the dark smudge around his eyes no doubt was eyeliner. It did not contrast much with his skin that, while it was brown, was not as dark as Baze's skin was. He was cleanly shaven and his hairline and skin quality did not indicate him to be much older than Baze, if older at all. From this distance Baze noticed how the blade stuck in the bloodmouth's head glowed the same way his bullets did.

"We gotta share the loot somehow," said Baze.

"Loot?" said Chirrut Îmwe, genuinely surprised. "Oh, I'm not interested in the loot right now."

"Fine. I take the valuables then."

"You told me we needed more of these. How many do you have left?" Chirrut lifted the bullet in front of his face. A gust of wind blew from behind him and brought a scent of sweat and the unfamiliar from his direction. It took a hold of the sash and the hem of his long wool cardigan. Baze found a necklace around Chirrut's neck with a glance, but the pendant disappeared underneath his black shirt made of broken net material.

"Too little."

"Guess we gotta go get more."

"We?" Baze asked.

"Baze Malbus." Chirrut smiled. "We have the same goal, don't we? I wanna kill them as much as you do. You shot a burst of three bullets and you only needed one. That's a bit of an overkill. You're a gunslinger and I use my blades."

Îmwe tossed the bullet towards Baze. Baze's heart jumped in his throat as he took a step back and instinctively pulled his scarf out of the way as well when the bullet fell on the ground, making the faintest noise as it met the ground. Chirrut frowned, but said nothing of it. The two grouched back down on the ground, Baze to grab the bullet and Chirrut to pull the sword out of the bloodmouth's head.

Baze wrapped his fingertips in his scarf and lifted the bullet up. Kyber bullets could be reused in the best cases, but this one had met with too much bone and had flattened from the tip. It would no longer fly properly from the muzzle of the rifle.

Baze clicked his tongue against his palate and threw the bullet over his shoulder. With the same movement he adjusted his sniper rifle and watched with disgust as Îmwe looked for the hilt of his butterfly sword with his hands, found it, and yanked it out of the skull. It came out with a puff of dust, and the dust formed a slimy substance together with the human blood stains. The glow of the silver-coloured metal could not be dimmed by anything than blood and the ashes of a bloodmouth.

Chirrut took a napkin from his pocket and wiped the dirt to it. Both of the short blades found their places on the strap harness around his back, all of them easy to take a hold of even in the heat of a battle. Îmwe's fingertip was stained in the dust-blood-mixture, and he wrinkled his nose.

"Oh, eugh, ew."

"I never get used to that," Baze said.

"Oh, tell me about it."

Chirrut Îmwe got up and Baze's eyes found the sash again. Its dark red colour had been washed out after years, and the hem of it looked broken and used. He squinted his eyes and wondered, again, like he had for the many months they had known one another. And once again, he did not find it within himself to pose the question.

"We could get the bullets directly from the mines."

Îmwe stopped his movements. "The kyber mines?"

"Under the temple."

Îmwe furrowed his brow. From the shadows of his jaw Baze Malbus could see the man grind his teeth.

"How?"

"It's not easy alone, that's for sure."

"Then we go together."

Chirrut stood up and adjusted all his weapons, his clothes and the gun on his belt again. He drew his gloved hand through his short, tousled hair and scratched the back of his neck.

"I thought we could go get a pint or two at a tave-"

"No."

Baze's one-word response made Chirrut sigh. He did not know why he had expected anything else.

"You sure?"

"Good night, Chirrut Îmwe."

The thought of being dragged to Ni-Jedha, right after having been thrown at with a kyber bullet, forced Baze to turn around on his heel and take steps away. What he did not expect were steps following behind him, the sound of a staff dragging on the gravel of the road.

"Don't go yet. I only have one bullet left in my gun," Îmwe said. "I really need more kyber, we gotta make a plan."

"You seem to do just fine alone," Baze chuckled. "Don't you?"

"You don't."

Baze stopped his steps and turned around so quickly even Îmwe took a step back. "What do you mean?"

"You sought me out after the showdown, after all, and I don't think you want an autograph. You never do." Îmwe had an irritating smile on his face, a smile that created deep smile creases in the corners of his eyes and revealed much of his gums. His teeth were somewhat yellow, and when Baze thought of it, he could smell a faint hint of Jedhan tobacco from him.

Tobacco alone was tempting, but Îmwe's personal scent came also with it. Chirrut Îmwe leaned to his staff. When he did, his posture slumped forward.

They sighed, simultaneously.

"Aren't we a bit too tired for that?" Baze asked about the plan.

"I feel the Force guided me to you now to make it," Îmwe said. Baze lifted his brow so high his eyebrows nearly collided with his sharp hairline.

"I thought you were awake and not sleepwalking."

"I don't care if you believe or not."

"I haven't in years."

"I know that much. I see you don't wanna go to the city, I get you." Îmwe's fingers curled around the staff. Baze wondered which wood it was made of.

"Good."

"Don't you think we work well together?"

"Implying that  _you_ do?" Baze laughed. He did not know if the perceived cheer from Îmwe's disposition irritated him or compelled him closer. "I thought I was, how did you put it, annoyingly territorial and stubborn as a rock."

"Did I ever say those were bad things?"

Baze rolled his shoulders. The magazines of kyber bullets rattled slightly in the purse he had strapped on his back. Swordsmanship and close combat had advantages to bullets. A blade needed maintenance, yes, but it needed to be covered in kyber only once and it would remain so for the rest of its long lifespan.

"And," Îmwe said and adjusted his gloves. "We have the same goal. Kill those bastards."

"I like the way you put that." Baze flipped one of the two traditional Jedhan braids he had put his hair in. "And then loot them when possible."

"They could have some coins."

"I get the coins."

"Like I said, you get the loot," Chirrut said and gestured towards the bodies now almost completely turned to dust. "I don't have a need for it."

Chirrut Îmwe had not found himself regretting the decision to stick with Baze Malbus. Baze Malbus was a man who was easy to follow. He was not discreet and he had a distinct scent. His steps were audible and if nothing else, Chirrut could always distinguish the sound of the bullet magazines in the satchel he had around his chest. Baze Malbus walked with heavy steps that made Chirrut wonder what exactly weighed him down in such a manner. What was it on Baze Malbus' shoulders that made him so terribly heavy? And what was the scent that he could feel on Malbus - was it the gunpowder and kyber?

Baze Malbus compelled him, and he did not resist Chirrut following that compulsion. After their first meeting, Chirrut Îmwe had found himself following Baze Malbus and keeping him company. And soon enough, only after a week, he had discovered something from Malbus that he very much liked - his tendency to take care.

Chirrut Îmwe had a reputation that frightened the bloodmouths in an entirely different way. While Baze Malbus was known as the silent death and prowler in the dark that shot you before you even knew it, Chirrut Îmwe was remembered and seen. The few witnesses to his hunting sprees all testified in the same vein - he knew no mercy.

Chirrut would first perhaps appear here or there and arrogantly taunt his prey. That was if the bloodmouth he had chosen was lucky. The unlucky ones would first feel the burning hiss of his kyber swords either in their leg or the back of their neck. His sharpened-to-cut-glass-blades would sever limbs and decapitate, far before reaching the heart. If the bloodmouth engaged in hands-on combat, they would endure pain and suffering unknown to the human species. Many a beast had witnessed the pained death groans of their loved ones in the hands of the blind hunter.

What irritated them the most was how Chirrut would respond to questions about his skills, whenever he went around the Holy City. He would attribute his skills and passionate hunting to the Force, an entity the Temple's Guardians had worshipped and prayed to. It implied that despite having seized the production of their only lethal weakness, the bloodmouths still had not fully contained the Guardians of the Whills. It meant that, in the form of Chirrut Îmwe and the hunter he was such a popular representative of, kyber ran wild and helped the likes of Chirrut Îmwe channel the Universe itself to wipe out the species known as the bloodmouths.

That, ultimately, was why they despised him. They _feared what he could do_ , but they _loathed_ the very being of _what he was_.

Chirrut himself, however, took no particular pleasure from killing. When he had beer with the locals after a hunt or killed someone in revenge for someone else, of course he showed joy. He was expected to. Chirrut Îmwe was known as a frivolous man who had a bit of a showman in him, so letting that go after a hunt would have felt if not straight-up perverse, then at least vaguely concerning.

That was the burden of the one who carried expectations of constant good humour. When even neutrally melancholic, to any observer with any knowledge of his usual behaviour, would soon look like a worrisome state to be. And as a guardian, a hunter, Chirrut could not have morally accepted causing worry in those who put trust in him.

So, he chose to show a sense of outward victory whenever he emerged victorious from an encounter with the bloodstained hands of the undead. He would sit on their bodies and feel them turn into dust beneath him, he would talk about their pathetic final cries and their badly sharpened blades _ad nauseam_.

As soon as Chirrut returned to the home he and Baze had shared for quite some time, he would face the reality of it. And while he wore a mask of sorts even with Baze Malbus, it was not as thick. Because that reality was what Baze Malbus also knew: Chirrut did not like to fight.

The reason why a bloodmouth was sure to suffer in his hands did not lie in the sadistic nature required for hunting in such a manner intentionally. He could not kill with one decisive blow to the heart like Baze Malbus could have, for he was blind and needed to slow down his prey before administrating the lethal strike. He did not take any pleasure from the dying groans. Not in the same way he had while killing his first, second, third bloodmouth.

After that, fighting had become a necessity, a duty he had to fill. Chirrut Îmwe did not believe that anybody enjoyed killing. Not Baze Malbus, not himself, and not even the bloodmouths. That's why it was vital to make it fast - and only the kyber mines could give them what they needed for it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baze and Chirrut go steal some kyber.

PRESENT DAY

He pounced and scared the prey animal from its nightly meal, and the chase began. The large feet of the omnivorous hunter treated the terrain like a drum, making sure that everyone in the vicinity knew to stay in their homes and in their nests. The hunter, the last Jedhan direwolf, moved fast, and he had locked his target in a tireless chase. The prey was a four-legged animal with small horns protruding from its head. He had separated the young male from its herd. When the direwolf growled, drool dripped from his hungry mouth.

The prey tried to distract its hunter with a zig-zag motion, but it was for naught. The forest was pitiful in size, and the trunks of trees reached high before growing any branches. The wolf had clear vision of his prey at all times. The more it moved, the clearer he saw its figure, and the higher it leapt, the more did his body urge him forward to sink his teeth into the animal.

It took him only one push to finish the chase. Right by the edge of the forest, he ran on top of a large rock, and jumped right at the animal, tackling it to the ground. It tried to kick the direwolf with its hooves, attempting to cause damage, but it all was in vain. The direwolf was larger than any carnivore that threatened the prey species. A hundred kilograms of musculature and thick fur kept the animal down as the direwolf sank his teeth into its neck.

Warmth spread in his mouth like a fountain. The prey animal twitched and convulsed in a desperate attempt to cling on to its dear life. Nature worked in wonders, for even the hunter and the hunted equally struggled for their dear lives when posed with a threatening situation.

He bit deeper. His canines sliced through the flesh like a hot knife. He lowered his head and pressed his body on the ground. He listened to the final whining breaths of his prey. He heard how air hissed out of the lungs that no longer breathed sufficiently, rendering the animal more and more limp by every passing second.

A direwolf could have eaten anything. By nature he was capable of sustaining his energy and life with practically any type of food as long as his protein intake was secured. The little forests Jedha had hosted a bounty of berries, fish, animals. The markets of the Holy City were abundant with ingredients and spices from all around the Republic of Independent Systems.

He did enjoy all types of food on a regular basis. But ever since he had been nothing but a lonely pup exiled from the temple, he had not returned to the City. Without the City, he could not have spices for cooking. He did cook, but always the same. It did inevitably awaken his need for excitement.

A hunter's instinct.

For nothing could have quite satisfied the Jedhan direwolf like the taste of blood from another Jedhan creature. Nothing could have quenched the thirst of the massive beast as perfectly as the thrill of a chase ending in inevitable success.

He drained the life of the prey animal out of its veins, and he closed his eyes in pleasure. He huffed a few hasty breaths through his nostrils. The blood of living beings was sweet. The meat was tender, ripe for the picking.

The pulse of the animal slowly faded. He felt it against his teeth. It left the carcass immobile – a delectably fresh kill. He wished he could have felt the pulsing sensation for longer, but alas, there was only so much blood in one creature's veins.

Blood dripped from the corners of his mouth, and he started panting. The chase had left him with a rising body heat high even for a direwolf, so he had to balance it out. He remembered feasting together with his long gone pack, and he could almost hear how his wolf siblings had howled to invite everyone for a dinner. The urge took over him and he stood on all his four feet, lifted his snout, and howled.

The howl came from the depths of his large chest. It reverberated within his bones, and it began as a low-pitched, sad little thing. It echoed dozens of kilometres away, and made it known to all living beings that a direwolf was near. It was a warning, but most of all, it was an invitation for any fellow wolves.

Any. The direwolf knew that hope had died long ago. It was a sad song of solitude, only marking the absolute loneliness this packless wolf found himself in. It ended in a whimper, and the direwolf lowered his ears in surrender.

With a few wags of his tail he lied down. His vigilant ears constantly listened to his surroundings when he started to skin the dead animal with hungry delight. He growled in satisfaction, into the meat and tendons that he ripped apart with routine and expertise.

 

* * *

 

The kyber stealing gig was not supposed to be hard. Of course the very idea of diving into the den of the beasts set Baze's heartrate soaring. The way Chirrut so calmly sharpened his butterfly swords as they travelled, however, eased his worry. Chirrut had shown how perfectly capable he was of handling himself in combat. Perhaps Baze worried more about himself than his companion.

This evening they both wore all black, except for the red sash that Chirrut had, yet again, tied to hang from his waist. On Jedha , night temperatures fell somewhere below zero, and Baze wore both a sweater and his long black parka on top of it. The hems of it had been tattered and ripped during the past 16 years he'd had it, like most of his clothing. He did not sweat much, not in these temperatures. On top of that, Baze was naturally warm. The metallic buckles of his boots flashed in the night in the colour that Chirrut's kyber blades sparked whenever the blades met.

Chirrut wore a tight long-sleeved blouse with a woollen cardigan and leathery fingerless gloves on top. They both carried revolvers and butterfly knives. Baze carried his trusty sniper rifle, and Chirrut had his staff-sword and his smaller double swords. The long one he had sharpened back in Baze's cabin. Smudged eyeliner decorated his eyes, making the colour of them stand out way more than usual.

As the blades met one another, in the darkness the sharp edges sparked light. Kyber met kyber, and with each flick of Chirrut's wrist the blades became sharper. Chirrut's wrists were relaxed and he had no need to focus much on the activity. A routine, it was, a weekly or so routine he had perfected during the years. Sparks flew from the short blades that extended about twenty centimetres from the hilt, ready to cut anything that came on their way in half. Baze found himself flinching every time the blade swung towards him, even though they stayed far away from him. The glowing metal and the sparks intimidated him, and the very thought of touching kyber sent shivers down his spine.

"Been a while since I last went there," said Baze through his scarf and adjusted the sandstorm goggles he had placed on his forehead. He adjusted the strap harness that held his sniper rifle behind his back, and the kyber bullet magazines on his belt clacked faintly against one another.

"Same here. We ain't ever been there together, either," Chirrut said. His voice was barely audible from the sharp whines of the blades.

"You sure it makes sense to go there together, though?" Baze asked.

"And why wouldn't it? You doubt my abilities, my fighting spirit, my stamina?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Then what is it?"

"It's a tomb basically, no?"

"If you mean a death trap, then not really, but tomb-like otherwise."

"A hole swarming with bloodmouths with an abundance of one entrance.” Baze lifted his pointing finger. “Sounds pretty deadly and trapping to me."

Chirrut leaned a bit closer to hear Baze speak through the scarf. The steps of Chirrut's boots were certain despite his staff being only behind his back and not in use in front of him.

"Maybe," Chirrut said, "but we just gotta make it _their_ death trap."

"Easy for you to talk." Baze took a second for a meaningful silence before he continued: "You're the one equipped for close combat."

"Baze Malbus, unless I am much mistaken - and that doesn't happen often - it's starting to sound very much as if you were afraid." Chirrut made one painfully long stroke of the blades and spun them around in his hands.

"Show-off," Baze remarked.

"Are you?" Chirrut asked.

"A show-off? No."

"Yes, you are." Chirrut chuckled. "But I meant afraid."

"Isn't a healthy amount of fear needed everywhere these days?"

"Fair point."

What Chirrut sensed was not just a _healthy amount of fear_. What had become only a semi-useful sense to him in childhood was now a crucial way for Chirrut to probe the situations the two found themselves in. He tucked his blades in their holsters and pulled his collar up as he took a deep breath in through his nostrils. This time, he had his bowcaster with him also, a light weapon that provided accurate blows in case he needed to get out of a situation fast, but still be able to fire. He had hand-crafted the weapon long, long ago.

Baze Malbus denied it, but he did fear the kyber mine. The fear was not regular nervousness any hunter felt before a prowl, but it had a personal smell to it. Human fear of beasts had the scent of humans as a species, but profound fears smelled like the individual carrying it. And Baze Malbus's fear had always had an unique scent, even flavour. Chirrut had become acquainted with that scent.

Chirrut himself knew first-hand what bloodmouths could do. He had witnessed the results of their prowls too many times. The man walking next to him, however, had a personal bone to pick. It was something Baze had not yet felt the need to share, even after the few months of companionship they'd had.

The kyber mine was a nest of traps and terrors. It withheld the creatures protecting their only weakness from intruders looking to exploit it.

"As long as we don't take too long, I'll be fine," Baze said.

"Oh, I wasn't planning on waltzing in there for long."

"But you were planning on waltzing?"

"I'll dance a bit for victory on their metaphorical graves, nothing more." They shared a light laughter that lasted for the rest of their trip.

The door to the mine was no trick at all to bust open, especially when Baze and Chirrut did it together. The entrance was located on the east wall of the temple, and old, sand-covered concrete stairs took them to it. Chirrut had never walked there before, unlike Baze, who had an acute need for kyber more often. At least that was what Chirrut told himself, how Chirrut explained it to himself in his mind. Baze as usual stayed tight-lipped about it.

"Sense anything?" Baze asked. The hinges of the back door creaked as if the door had not been opened in years. That was likely the case.

"Nothing unusual," replied Chirrut. "What does it look like?"

The obvious answer was dark, cold, and anything that described the damp and musty scent that flowed from the staircase. Moisture dripped from the ceiling somewhere down, and its echo told Chirrut that the staircase was empty.

"Looks safe to go," Baze said. That was the kind of opinion he had learned to give instead of arbitrary visual descriptors.

"Then I guess we will go,” Chirrut said. “We will both fit just fine?"

"Well, if you walk normally and don't swing your weapons around, then yes."

"Me? Swinging around? You think you know me so well, don't you," Chirrut reiterated. Baze took out his smaller revolver and Chirrut promptly took his kyber-ended staff with him to the darkness.

"Yeah."

Baze took the lead, and Chirrut ended up leaving the door open behind him only slightly. It cast the light of the planet to the staircase, but only until they turned.

"I do not like this place," Chirrut said. Their slow steps took them way below ground level, and Chirrut could both feel and hear it in the air. When the stairs spiralled, his shoulders brushed the wall. Not only did it deepen, it also narrowed. Chirrut usually preferred small spaces over big ones, but not then.

"Gives me the creeps," Baze agreed.

"We'll be outta here soon enough," Chirrut said. "How deep do we gotta go?"

"Real deep, unless we bump into some abandoned cart someone lost, just happening to be full of the good stuff."

"Wouldn't that be a ridiculous strike of luck?" Chirrut said.

"Me finding you was a ridiculous strike of luck, wouldn't you think." Chirrut heard a smile from Baze's gravelly voice. He liked the sound of it. "I hope life isn't planning to change that."

"All is as the Force wills it," Chirrut said.

They halted in front of a heavy door. The wooden building materials of the mine indicated a different builder than that of most of the other parts of the Holy City. Chirrut could feel the air get denser with every step they had taken downwards, and now every inhale was harder than the one before. Baze shushed Chirrut gently before he could have said a single word.

What Baze saw inside was a fantastic abundance of what they both craved and feared: kyber. It shone from the cracks of the dark cavern, laying the shadows of the digging equipment on the floor. No artificial light was needed in the light of the kyber that vibrated in multiple colours in the air. The bloodmouths had kept the mines intact after the invasion because just touching the crystals would send them to a land of pain with no return.

"What do you know about kyber crystals?" Chirrut asked.

"That I want them as quickly as possible, and then get the hell outta here," Baze said. "You should stay here and keep an eye on the perimeter while I do the collecting."

"And let you have all the fun? I'm sorry, Malbus, but I think I'm a bad watchdog." He pointed at his eyes with his index finger with a theatrical gesture.

"Can you collect the kyber, then?"

"I can. How much do we need?"

"All we can carry without breaking our backs, basically." Baze walked into the hall and took a hold of one of the dust-covered hatches. He threw a shovel in Chirrut's direction, and the blind man caught it with ease. Chirrut let the Force affirm what he already could tell from what he heard and smelled and felt. He found his way next to which Baze stood and began searching and shoveling a pile if rocks next to a hole in the wall. Chirrut felt a warm radiation from the Force as he dug through the pile.

Baze wiped sweat from his forehead and looked around himself as he took a break from mining. Every time he hit the hatch against the wall, an echo of the sound tumbled down to the deeper levels of the mine. The deeper levels could be accessed with an elevator next to the wall, but they did not know if it worked. When Baze looked down into the depths, it was like looking up to the night sky, but with more colour.

Every dot of purple, red, blue, green, yellow made him shiver, while the sheer amount of the sacred crystals humbled him. He did not feel them the same way Chirrut did. Chirrut felt the embrace of the Force in the mine in a way that brought him to a lost childhood, while Baze both wanted to drown in the darkness and run away from it. The glow of the kyber was alive and rare in its brightness, hypnotizingly so.

"Jedha to Baze base," Chirrut said and threw a pebble at him. It landed in Baze's hair, and it was so tiny it got stuck in his curls. Baze picked it between his fingertips and flicked it off with a gentle movement.

"It's different here than anywhere else." Baze hit the hatch into the wall. “Mesmerizing.”

"It feels as beautiful as it must look. You can look at kyber forever, but to truly feel it is a completely another deal." Chirrut slipped a few crystals into the pouch that he had hung from his belt.

Baze let himself observe his companion for a brief moment. Chirrut's olive-pigmented skin was paler than Baze's own, and in the glow of kyber it had an otherworldly feeling to it. Thick, incurable cataracts obscured his pupils entirely. The glow of the kyber gave his eyes a faint violet colour, and it cast shadows below and above his prominent brow bone. He looked serene in the moment, calm and collected even when they were in the midst of enemy territory.

"You're staring at me," Chirrut said. Baze blinked rapidly and threw a lump of violet kyber into his backpack. Luckily it weighed way less than regular rocks did. It concerned him less than the blush on his cheeks.

"You can't know that."

"You always tell me  _you_ can tell when you're being watched."

"It's different."

"How exactly is it different? Please tell me, Baze Malbus." He had no intent of bullying Baze. He just found pleasure in observing the faint huffs and changes in tone and presence his companion had whenever Chirrut pushed his buttons strategically.

"Staring is staring. Watching is watching. Watching doesn't mean staring."

"It technically does."

"No." Baze huffed. "You can watch over me. But you can't stare. So if I can tell I'm being watched, it doesn't mean I can tell if I'm being stared at."

"Well, if you have to split hairs like that, then-"

The idle chatter was interrupted by sounds from the depths. Chirrut sensed the elevator move before they both heard it, and they knew it had been a long time coming. Chirrut tied the kyber bag on his leather belt, and Baze strapped his backpack in. A light came from the deep, and the mechanism began rattling.

"I think we've over-exhausted our stay." Chirrut grimaced.

"So much for your waltz party."

"I can still waltz outta here. This is about to get ugly."

"We've been in worse situations than this one," Baze said. Chirrut took the first steps towards the door to the stairs, and Baze followed with backward steps.

"Some situations just follow you wherever you go, huh?" Chirrut said and took out his dual blades. They reflected the glistening of the unrefined kyber everywhere. "I'm one with the Force, the Force is with me..."

Their running up the stairs was frantic to say the least. Chirrut gauged the place out with his senses and kept on listening to the way his and Baze's steps echoed. From that he could determine whether they were alone or not, and he had no choice but to trust it. The stench of fear reached every corner and it was not Baze or Chirrut's fear. It was the fear of the three bloodmouths that had the guts to run after them, the fear of the creatures that knew the scent of the notorious hunters who now had access to their greatest weakness since the last direwolf pack had been killed.

Baze loaded his revolver and fired in the dark. The shots flew at random, and had no use in the spiral staircase. The first shot caused only minor frustration, and the second one made him growl. Even with the weight of the kyber on his back, he knew that wasting the precious material was not ideal. He had to get out and slay the beasts with proper accuracy. Baze could accept nothing less than that. He stumbled in the stairs and was caught by Chirrut who he had not seen had slowed down.

"Baze, duck and go ahead of me," Chirrut said and took his own weapon to his hands. He had sculpted the bowcaster out of gold, and he turned it vertically to fit the wings of it in the narrow staircase. Chirrut let the Force guide his aim and his hand equally.

Chirrut Îmwe did not see through the Force. He would not have described his Force-sensibility as something that replaced his nonexistent eyesight. It was the extra mile his intuition went, the accuracy with which he just knew things. He fired only when his intuition told him to.

A kyber shot hit one of them straight between the eyes. Chirrut heard how the first one's body forced the other hissing bloodmouths to fall down, buying them time. Chirrut laughed at the fact that he had yet again trumped the beasts, and he took his chance to run after Baze who had passed him earlier and taken steps upwards. Exhaustion stung in his chest before he reached the door, and Baze pulled Chirrut up for the last three or so steps. Baze proceeded to slam the door shut before the bloodmouths could even see the door. In the nick of time, Baze put a stick on the door to make it at least a bit more difficult to open for the supernaturally strong beings.

"That's pathetic, but it'll do."

"Pathetic or not, we bolt," Chirrut said and switched from his bowcaster to his butterfly swords. Running with blades would have been a bad idea for anybody else but Chirrut, the master of nimbleness and acrobatics.

This, again, was not the time for Baze to ask about the bowcaster, its intricate carvings, and how it related to the sash. The duo left off down the path away from the invaded mine.

In the night, the desert was no less dangerous than during the day. The two had equipped themselves with heavy boots, so running away from their chasers would be no easy feat. On the open desert the hunters were an open target for the creatures that could outrun them in any direction possible. They both prepared to fight while running down the steep hill that led them away from the Holy City. In silent understanding Chirrut let Baze take the lead and run faster, and he himself slowed down when he heard the bloodthirsty shrieks of their chasers.

"My stars, Baze, we gotta be careful."

"Aren't we always careful?" Baze responded.

“Let's just say that today I hope the Force really is with us.”

Despite the brief banter they both knew that the moment was no laughing matter. Underneath the open skies the bloodmouths would prowl at night, and Baze and Chirrut had chosen night time for their theft for a reason. More beasts outside simply meant less beasts in the death trap - but also they knew that a far trickier escape followed.

Baze ran as fast as he could and when he reached level ground, he struggled the backpack off and threw it as far as he could. He knew the bloodmouths would hesitate touching it once they figured out what he carried in it - which in all likelihood they already had. Baze came to a sudden halt as did Chirrut about ten meters behind him, and Baze turned around. The long hem of his tattered parka spun around him, and sand obscured his feet from view. He took his sniper rifle off of his back, fell on his knee and set the weapon on his arms, ready to squeeze the trigger.

He did not have to do so yet. It was merely a security precaution. Through the telescope he watched Chirrut close in on the bloodmouths like a natural disaster, his red sash twirling in an elegant dance. If Chirrut had wanted to waltz, this was the moment. Only three bloodmouths had followed them, and after Baze fired, only two of them were on to Chirrut, giving him a challenge, but not a deadly one.

Baze cursed under his breath and blinked off a few sweat drops that fell from his brow. Aiming in the night was easier with the heat-sensitive telescope, but Chirrut was so close to the targets that a clear shot required focus. The scent of the individual bloodmouths was not enough to sharpen his aim. All Baze could do was to wait for his opportunity to rise.

If Chirrut's movements were a hurricane, the center of it was indeed calm. Chirrut kept his cool as he gave himself entirely to the Force, as he forgot all about himself and his physical restrictions, and became a physical continuation of the universe itself. The dual blades warmed up in his hands as if the kyber itself was impatient to sink into undead flesh. Chirrut showed no impatience but he certainly did want it to be over soon.

Chirrut kicked one bloodmouth into the ground to win some time with the other one. He turned on his heel to them and landed a sharp roundhouse kick to their chest, and he heard their solar plexus crack. It sent a sharp spark of pain through the bloodmouth, but its undead wickedness soon enough mended the damage. Chirrut had not even wished to break any bones, but to freeze the bloodmouth briefly. He ran towards them and with both blades he sliced their face in an X-shape. Flesh and skin peeled off of the creature's skull and their shriek pierced through the open cheeks that revealed all the sharpened teeth. The kyber sizzled and did a number on the paper thin skin.

Chirrut spun around into another kick when the other bloodmouth rose from the temporary shock the kick had delivered earlier. Human blood splattered on the sand in the desert night when Chirrut flicked it off of his blade and turned around to face the bloodmouth in the air. He landed two kicks in its chest, landed on his feet and lunged forward.

Baze recognized the movements. He knew the name of the martial art that Chirrut took advantage of - zama shiwo - but had said nothing of it. It was but yet another dot to connect about his mysterious hunter companion.

The bloodmouth used a staff made of iron, and they blocked the strike of the dual blades with ease that shocked even Chirrut. A bullet flew past them as Baze shot a merciful blow to the already struck bloodmouth's head, splattering pale pink brain tissue all over the ground.

"Two down," Baze huffed to himself. "One more to go." He loaded the weapon and took aim at the bloodmouth who wielded the staff. Briefly he regretted not shouting about it to Chirrut, but as Chirrut made the situation work in his favour, Baze dwelt in the situational regret no longer.

The wind blew from behind him and brought a malicious scent with it. Baze had focused his sharp hearing entirely on Chirrut, so only now he heard the steps from behind him. Ignoring the shivers down his spine, he slipped his hand under his coat and drew the kyber-coated butterfly knife from its leather holster near his revolver.

The bloodmouth that had snuck behind him jumped forward and Baze met with the furious gaze of loyal vengeance. Baze snarled and grabbed the beast by the shoulder, tackled them to the ground and kicked them in the stomach. They wore nothing but broken sack fabric, their pale face looked scrawny and underfed, and the scars on their face told a tale of a life Baze knew everything about. Even in the dark the face showed fear, and the beast that had been turned at a young age tried to crawl away from the inevitable.

"You're-" it whimpered.

"I'm your final sight," Baze said and opened the blade with the swift movement of one hand. "I suggest you make it count."

"Please..."

"Never sneak up on me, kid," Baze said as he straddled the bloodmouth. Had he not known that bloodmouths themselves never acted on pity, he would have maybe let this one go. The beast scratched Baze's parka to no avail. The blade struck deep and true between the fourth and fifth rib, and finished the life of the cursed individual once and for all, cleanly and quickly. Baze drew the blade out once the struggling ceased, and found that it was stained in just a few specks of blood. The scene of the short fight was left cleaner than that of Chirrut's.

Because while Baze had dealt with this one scrawny, helpless fellow, Chirrut had found out that the staff his opponent wielded had a blade in one end. The way the staff made sounds as it spun in the air could have only indicated a metallic end, and Chirrut was wise enough to assume the worst-case scenario. The blade swished right past the top of his head, and Chirrut could feel how it snapped one of his hairs in two. As the blade came back, he bent flexibly backwards to avoid it.

The staff was a new tool. Chirrut had encountered those only twice before. He could tell that the bloodmouth merely relied on its intimidating stature than rather than their own skill. Had Chirrut had time to take out his own staff, he would have, but just then he had to deal with the dual blades infused with kyber.

He could feel dense murderous intent circle and then disappear around Baze like a gust of wind. Because Baze's presence still left a mark in the Force, Chirrut did not need to worry of him.

Chirrut blocked the big blade with his own swords. It sent sparks around in the darkness and shot pain through Chirrut's arms. The bloodmouth he had engaged was no doubt tall and sinewy, but had a panicked haste in their steps. Chirrut came up with multiple things to say to mock them, but decided against talking and for focusing fully. Inexperienced fighter or not, he still held the heaviest weapon Chirrut had ever encountered in close combat.

The blade took its toll on the red sash, and the sound of ripping fabric filled the air. This alerted Baze to aim at the fighters again, though he knew that Chirrut would not be pleased with any interruption to a battle that was going perfectly fine in his opinion. Baze put the knife back to his belt and observed, his trigger finger as itchy as ever.

Chirrut averted a downward hit that fell towards him like a guillotine. While the bloodmouth prepared to swing the staff up, Chirrut took his chance. Exploiting the lack of experience he placed his foot on the staff, forcing it down. He just about caused Baze to yelp desperately in worry when he leaned closer to the bloodmouth and stuck his blades in the creature's lungs. Blood pulsated from within like from a river, and pain forced the bloodmouth to let go of the staff.

Chirrut pulled his right blade out of the now gaping wound filled with shreds of flesh, blood, and fibres of the shirt they wore. Then, Chirrut struck the blade straight through the heart, cutting the ear-shattering screech of pain short.

Silence fell before the body did, heavy with curses and death. Mercy had been given. The life of a bloodmouth was short and filled with terrors, but as trying to cure it would be for naught, Chirrut could not afford mercy at this point. Not any more.

 

* * *

 

The cabin always smelled fresh. In the way Baze stepped in it Chirrut could sense familiarity and comfort. Baze had a rough way of stepping about outside, but in his cabin he lifted his feet less, laid them down with far less weight. Chirrut closed the door behind him and breathed in the scent that had became to him, as well, a scent of home. Baze had stopped inviting him over or telling him to not come, for Chirrut always so naturally followed him everywhere.

The scent of dried herbs was what lingered in the air the most. Baze had a thing for cooking, and while he ate practically anything from raw eggs to bone marrow, he had particular tastes. His taste buds were well acquainted with delicacies of spices and flavour. Spices and herbs he got from the dry woods the cabin was located near, and he grew the rest indoors. He had undoubtedly lived in this cabin for long years, but he never spoke of how many. Chirrut could only make ill-educated assumptions based on what he could learn from the cabin itself.

He knew the cabin was that of a former forest guard. It was a one bedroom apartment where the kitchen was integrated with the bedroom. From next to the kitchen cabinets one could take the stairs to the cold storage in the cellar, also small enough to fit just one man, and barely even a man the size of Baze. The cabin was so small that, while just as cold as the outside air when people had been gone, it warmed up quickly when two people entered it and put fire in the fireplace or used the oven. The bed that fit one and a half people was located next to the dining table and the work bench where Baze spent most of his time when he spent it inside the cabin. The materials were mostly wood, and the floors creaked where there were no raggedy carpets that were at least a few decades old. Chirrut had once wondered if the former owner had owned a dog, because sometimes he could swear he smelled a wet dog stench in the room on a rare damp day, or after Baze had spent a day cleaning.

Baze, no doubt ravenous, descended to the cellar to bring forth food from what he had for a freezer. He slammed the food he had retrieved on the counter near the stove. While the water heated up for some tea, he started slicing the meat up for some stew. It made sense to make food for many days at once, and Chirrut heard him take out his biggest pot from the lower kitchen cupboard.

"Honey?" Baze asked. Chirrut laid his bowcaster on the floor to lean against the wall next to the door. A steady hum came from the gas stove.

"Yes?" he said.

"Ha, ha." Baze had smile in his voice. He paid zero attention to Chirrut's triumphant grin. "In your tea?"

"Celebration time?" Chirrut placed a hand on his chest with a dainty wrist movement. "Lavishing  _me_  with such culinary luxuries..."

"I also thought of taking out the bottle after we have eaten."

Baze Malbus made his own moonshine liquor. It was a sweet concoction he made from what sugar and fruit he could find, and he always made an entire barrel of it at once. Chirrut remembered the time he had taken one shot of it. It had been dangerously close to folding his entire face in four, and yet he found himself yearning for its sweet intoxicating kick even weeks after.

"Why after? I could use some right now."

"Go wash your face and hands first. You reek of them bastards."

Chirrut placed the kyber bags on Baze's work bench. The fabric muffled the sounds of the warm crystals clicking together. Chirrut could have groaned from how tedious the work they had ahead of the making the kyber useable was, but what had to be done had to be done. Instead of griping, Chirrut went to do what he had been told, and he found the bucket of water meant for washing one's self. Chirrut took the smaller bowl near the sink that didn't work, and he put a cloth in the bowl, squeezed it dry, and started patting off the dirt from places he could remember.

"So, you want that poison in your empty stomach," Baze said. "It can cut a hole in you."

"Honestly at this point I'm willing to try my luck. Don't worry, I'll leave enough room for the stew."

Baze did not ever question how Chirrut knew that it was stew he was making. And he had to admit that he, too, craved for the kick of the confounded booze. He watched Chirrut wipe his face, the eyeliner that worked as guerrilla war paint and the splatters of blood and dust on his hands and his face. Chirrut's back was turned to him, and Baze tilted his head while he listened to the splashing of water, to the steady inhales and exhales. Chirrut's scent had filled the entire cabin, more so than the scent of bloodmouth remnants.

While not sensitive to the Force - or at least not aware of his Force-sensitivity if there was such a thing - Baze knew what Chirrut's presence felt like. Many would have been irritated by the familiarity Chirrut exhibited with Baze, but Baze was not. He found himself yearning for somebody to be like that. Somebody to walk around in his cabin as if it was his own, yet every time trying out the surroundings simply because of his visual restrictions.

Baze's body and soul were still twisting in the thrill of the chase and the scent of a dying bloodmouth, and the fear his scent alone had instilled in the eyes of the scrawny one he had stabbed. When he stared at Chirrut, again, he remembered how the man had looked in the light of the kyber and compared it to how he looked now. Without his cardigan and weapons strapped around his chest, Baze could look at his body properly, as he usually did. He did not know why he let himself do that, but he also did not acquaint with Jedhan humans often.

Maybe that was why he was so keen on observing the shadows the muscles of Chirrut's scarred arms created. Maybe that was why his eyes were constantly drawn to the nape of Chirrut's neck and the muscles that moved in his back through the tight shirt when Chirrut wiped his face. And maybe that was why he wanted to come closer and take a good whiff of Chirrut's hair and neck, just to be sure that what he smelled was correct.

Baze shook his head and returned to the cooking. "Gimme a moment to put this bubblin'."

Morning was about to dawn. Chirrut felt it in the scent of dew in Baze's minuscule garden as he sat down in the chair Baze had made after a while of having Chirrut sit on a nearby rock whenever they spent time together outside. The deepest of sighs escaped from his lungs and he placed the two wooden mugs on the metallic table between the chairs. He focused his hearing on the entrance of the cabin to know when Baze was to come. Not a single time had Baze managed to surprise Chirrut Îmwe, and Chirrut planned to keep it that way.

Baze threw the last vegetables into the pot and put the fire on. He threw a few herbs into the water as well before he placed the lid on top of the stew. He grabbed the bottle from the table top near him and walked to Chirrut with a blanket with him too. It was cool enough inside, but just sitting outside would make him shiver and shake eventually. He threw the blanket to Chirrut who caught it with ease and did not show any signs of being startled.

"Full?" Baze asked and flicked the cork open. Chirrut nodded with a laugh.

"Full's the only way."

"Spoken like a true sage."

"The Force is good."

Baze followed the instructions and poured two glasses full of a golden liquid the smell of which reached Chirrut's nose within seconds. Baze leaned back in his chair and caressed the cool surface of the glass for a while before he let his gaze wander around. It found its place in the sunrise. They drank their first sips quietly, though Chirrut let out a quiet hiss and remarked:

"In the name of the Force, Baze Malbus, were I not already blind, this acid would make me."

"Pleasure's all mine," Baze chuckled. He looked over to Chirrut who had his infuriatingly bright smile plastered all over his heart-shaped lips. The smile came through the grimace the potent booze had twisted his face in. Baze moved the mug and watched the liquid swirl and wave around in the mug. He had to lean back from the stench of the alcohol. Chirrut felt it kick the back of his head the very second it touched his palate, and a pleasant lightness spread within him as his veins delivered it in his blood all over his body.

"I haven't ever made kyber bullets," Chirrut confessed.

"Where'd you get yours, then?"

"Sticky fingers, disposable cash..."

"So theft and extortion."

"Right."

Stealing kyber was a far harder task than stealing already made kyber bullets. Chirrut did not in general like stealing, but at least he had done it rarely and from suppliers with a substantial stash. It was not even the worst thing he had done in his life, after all.

"I'll make'em for ya."

"I need a few magazines maybe," Chirrut said. "I don't use them a lot."

"I was planning to keep most of them for my rifle anyway."

"How old is that gun? Wonder if I've already asked that." Chirrut rubbed his chin that had pushed out some stubble during the night. "You're a real demon with that, after all," he added.

Baze grimaced at the word. It made the hairs in the back of his neck rise and his upper lip lifted to show his incisor teeth. He had to suppress the reaction with a sip of his liqueur. He said nothing of it, but for a moment Chirrut sensed the change of air around Baze. It disappeared before Chirrut could form the question, and with it disappeared also the need to ask. He realized that it must have been the word _demon_ that had done it. Did Baze just not like being likened to the beasts they so tirelessly hunted week after week, year after year?

"I gotta be. And speaking of things I gotta, now I gotta ask you something." It had brought the question to Baze’s mind, and he could no longer resist the temptation. The red sash touched the dusty ground and looked orange in the light of the rising star.

"Oh?"

Baze kept a lot to himself, and Chirrut rarely felt the need to explain himself in his company. Baze had only once or twice asked a straightforward question from Chirrut who, naturally, was more than happy to answer most questions. Not all. Maybe all. He could not think of a question he would not answer truthfully if it were Baze Malbus asking.

"That red cloth around your waist," Baze said. "Where did you get it?"

"You're finally paying attention to my fashion choices?"

"Says the hunter in nothing but mesh and leather. And you didn't even wash off your makeup."

"Red happens to go well with it," Chirrut said. Baze saw the corner of his smile twitch when he lifted the glass to his lips.

Into the drink, Chirrut said: "I got it when I was a kid."

 

* * *

 

26 YEARS AGO

Other noises drowned out. The child's heavy breathing drowned the shrieks of terror and the splashes of blood, the slashing sounds of claws and metal biting into flesh of running guardians. He held on to his uneti wood staff and felt blood escaping his whitened knuckles. His blind eyes stared into nothingness and he tried to relax his trembling jaw, his clicking teeth, but to no avail. Not that it would have made any difference, of course he knew that, for the clicking of his teeth was in no way audible in the chaos present in the temple halls. He brought his knees to his chest and touched the staff with his forehead.

"And I fear nothing... I f-fear... fear... fear nothing..."

His breath huffed exhales through his nostrils and he inhaled the scent of smoke and fire. Rattling of flames closed in and he heard heavy thumps, bodies hitting the floor. Usually, the child could forcefully stir himself from the nightmares only an orphan could have had about everything disappearing from around him. Now the sensations he had to deal with were all too real for him to even try. Even if there were a chance of succeeding, he chose to not try. Perhaps the nightmare could turn around. Maybe he could awaken within a sense of triumph. Maybe he could wake up naturally to a jolting sensation, as usual.

"All is... All is as the F-Force wills it..."

Smoke, fear, terror, steps, blood, growls, anger flooded his senses. Ever since the child had been but a child - which he still was, but a bigger, older one - he had been able to smell fear. Amidst the smoke and splatter he smelled it so overwhelmingly that he could finally try and determine how it smelled like. Before the day of the massacre it had merely met his senses with a hint of its existence. Now it was loud, insofar as a smell could have been loud. Every inhale forced it in, and as the panic unfolded before him in the multiple rooms across the hall from him, he became acquainted with that smell. He etched it in his memory as if it were invaluable information. Partially, the child did realize that this may have been his last strong sensation in this world. He did not wish to repel it, but revel in it, let himself be soaked in it. It was as strong as his sense of the Force.

The child inhaled fear and exhaled prayers:

"I am one with the Force. The Force  _is_ with me..."

Every prayer made the kyber crystal at the end of his staff resonate. Few knew it was kyber, even and he hoped, _prayed_ , that no one would notice. The smart decision in that chaos would have been to simply toss it, but without his staff he would have been lost. And as lost as he was with it, he did not wish to be lost without it.

"Someone's prayin' here."

"Who?"

"That kid."

"Ahh fuck. Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"I'm not gonna do it."

"What, do what?"

"I'm not gonna kill a kid! I've done it enough, it's fucking awful."

"Listen, it's not like we have a choice. Leave him alive and he'll come back to avenge his friends or some shit."

"Yeah that's why I said, _ahh fuck_."

The child heard a sigh and then felt a tight grip on his shoulder. The Force moved darkly around the creature above him. A hiss came straight into his ear, breathed something rancid.

"Go, and tell everyone in the city about us." The creature took a deep breath and reveled in the shakiness of the human child in their tightening grip. "And make sure they know everyone in the temple of the Whills has been devoured by us."

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a baby of mine. Expect a bit slower updates, but even more determination to bring the story to an end. **EDIT 29 DECEMBER 2018: Sorry for the delays, mental health has been bad and life changes have been pretty hectic. I have not abandoned this story, however!**
> 
> First and foremost, I want to thank my friend [Shaiger](https://shaiger.deviantart.com) for letting me use the vampire and werewolf lore he wrote for a writing-based RPG elsewhere. Also my friends [Hassel](https://twitter.com/genjienthusiast) and [Aaron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jedijuana/profile) have been important in developing this story and encouraging me to write it. And, of course, my fiancée Amb.
> 
> Here's a [Twitter moment](https://twitter.com/i/moments/954285069283348480) in which I compile some outfits and aesthetics and possible art for this story. Here's a [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/blackworth/playlist/4VFu8DkMU8KeU9QLxzkIpR?si=jLSK3k__TxSU-6ucHXIilw) I compiled for it. Here's [a cool Baze artwork](https://twitter.com/xzoniii/status/1004739188120379392) I commissioned from my pal Xzoni, go give it a like or retweet if you do Twitter.
> 
> The fic got it's name from the **Lord of the Lost** track, _Lost in Oblivion_. The lyrics in the beginning of the first chapter are also from this song.


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